


Star Light, Star Bright

by starscrearn



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Isolation, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 04:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16277738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscrearn/pseuds/starscrearn
Summary: The crew always came first. Rung knew that from the moment he signed on.But that didn't mean it was easy. It didn't mean he couldn't wish it was different.





	Star Light, Star Bright

It had been a nice ceremony, he could say that much, even though he’d stopped paying attention once Rodimus hit the fifth minute of his speech without saying much at all. Commendations had been made and accolades given in front of nearly the whole ship. At the captain’s strenuous insistence, Rung and the rest of the crew deemed “non-essential personnel” had packed into Swerve’s-- apparently the bartender had offered the use of the space so he wouldn’t have to set up drinks in another part of the ship. The bar had been mostly cleared of tables and chairs for the occasion, and as soon as the ceremony neared its end Rung was searching for an exit. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to have that goal in mind, and as the formalities concluded the gathered mechs relaxed and grew louder.

As the crowd shifted, Rung found himself shunted to one side, pushed out of the way as bots sought to offer congratulations to the few being honored or simply to claim a place at the bar before it became too crowded. The slim mech slipped from one clear patch to the next, dodging limbs, ducking under wings, and avoiding bulky kibble, and wound up hovering by the back wall of the bar next to one of Swerve’s serving droids. It had been similarly shoved aside. The droid trundled up to him, bumped his hip twice, and finally backed up enough to display its options where Rung could actually see them. He halfheartedly tapped in an order, tagged it with his frequency so the droid could find him again, and sent it on its way with a momentary pang of guilt as the stout little thing tried and at first failed to push its way through the throng of bots crowding the room. There was an interesting conclusion to be drawn there, he was sure. His musings ended when he lost sight of it as it ducked between someone’s legs.

Rung leaned back against the wall and waited for the droid to return with his drink as he watched the crowd slowly begin to thin. Minutes passed-- first five, then fifteen-- feeling more like hours, and for a while he contented himself with watching the bar’s other occupants. He almost laughed; he looked absurdly out of place amid the clusters of bots, and as far as he could tell, he was one of the only mechs there alone.

After nearly half an hour of waiting, he was seriously tempted to risk searching for the droid on his own and he had just pushed himself off the wall when the little robot emerged from the crowd, rolled over to him, and offered up a cube that did at least have his frequency associated with it. It looked more like a highgrade than the lowgrade he’d ordered, and it had gone warm. He took the cube anyway and transferred the necessary credits without complaint; with this many bots packed into the bar, Swerve was beyond busy, and mistakes were bound to happen.

As the serving droid departed, he couldn’t push back a flash of irritation that it had happened with his drink. At least holding the cube gave him something to do with his hands. He glanced down at it with a quiet sigh and reluctantly gave it a try.

It  _ burned. _ He nearly coughed it out and swiftly lowered the cube, sincerely hoping it hadn’t been intended for someone else; he doubted even  _ Whirl  _ would enjoy something that strong. Perhaps he should have sent it back when he still had the chance, but by now the droid was long gone. He sighed again and reconsidered it.

After a moment of deliberation, he went ahead and switched off his FIM chip, feeling the little jolt of guilt from earlier return. He wasn’t working, but that didn’t mean it felt like it. The cube was no less unpleasant without the filter in place, but at least the engex brought a comfortable dullness with it as it began to work through his lines. The noise of the bar swiftly dimmed around him. A nearby flash of movement caught his attention and when he followed it he found Nightbeat with his arm thrown casually around Hound’s shoulders. As he watched, Nightbeat lifted his free hand, idly brushing his fingers up to tap against the green mech’s side.

Rung’s spark and field lurched in unison and he quickly turned away. It didn’t help; his optics immediately landed on Trailcutter, drunk already and staggering against Nautica with a wide, giddy smile. The purple bot smiled back patiently and steadied him, staying close to his side as she tried to guide him to a seat. A moment later Hoist slipped in under Trailcutter’s other arm, propping him up between himself and Nautica. The drunk mech’s helm lolled towards him as he made his way through an appreciative, if somewhat slurred, greeting.

He forced himself to stop staring and tucked his arms across his chest, still clutching his glass. He was tempted to join them, but with Trailcutter in that state, it would have been futile. Instead he resettled himself against the wall and reluctantly busied himself once more with his drink as he went back to watching the crowd.

Closer to the bar he spotted Megatron, and a second glance revealed Minimus at his side. The co-captain appeared to be creating a path for both himself and his companion, waving the short load-bearer on ahead of him. At one point it looked as though he'd rested a hand on Minimus's shoulder to guide him. Megatron paused and stooped down, evidently trying to encourage Minimus to repeat himself. A faint smile flitted across his face and his broad shoulders twitched once in a stifled laugh at whatever he heard.

Rung's vents caught so painfully that for a moment he thought there was something actually wrong with him. He ducked his helm, idly rubbing at his sparkglass. It didn't help; his chest still felt tight and achy. He risked a glance up, just in time to catch the crowd closing behind Minimus and Megatron.

He hastily reactivated his FIM chip and felt the haziness begin to bleed out of his lines. If he was this unreasonably upset by something as simple as one of the co-captains speaking to the second in command, engex certainly wouldn’t do him any favors, even if it had been nice to lose that little bit of clarity.

As the buzz faded his gaze fell on Ratchet, the only other mech he’d seen so far who looked to be alone, and his vents relaxed in a quiet sigh. They hadn’t spoken in a while-- it would be nice to catch up. He pushed himself off of the wall and headed a little closer. 

The old medic looked exhausted and like he didn’t particularly want to be there, and Rung’s spark ached for him. He sat slightly apart from the main crowd of bots, at one of the few small tables Swerve had left in place. Ratchet lifted his head, and for a moment Rung thought he’d been spotted and went to call out to him. Before he could get the words out, Rodimus appeared out of the crowd and bounced over to him. They spoke briefly, Ratchet sighed, and Rung watched Rodimus’s hand come to rest on his shoulder and pat comfortingly. The corner of the medic’s mouth twitched up in a smile.

Rung didn’t watch for much longer. It felt like he was seeing contact at every turn, and while he certainly wouldn’t begrudge the various participants their closeness, he couldn’t help but wish that there was some for him. He’d kept himself isolated for so long he’d almost forgotten what gentle hands felt like.

Rung shook his head and dismissed the ridiculous thought. Or at least, he tried to. When  _ was _ the last time he’d felt touch for his own sake?

“Shut up,” he muttered, with a bitterness that actually surprised him.

He could have laughed. Here he was, standing in the back of the bar, alone, still half-drunk and talking out loud to his own processor. He shook his head again and readjusted his grip on the mostly full cube. It was unpleasantly warm at that point and the smell of it was almost strong enough to make him gag. He turned away and glanced around for a droid to take it. Finding none, he sighed and began the push through the crowd. 

Conversation swelled around him and despite his best efforts to skirt around what were clearly pockets of mechs standing together, he still felt as though he was cutting a fair few of them off. Not that they seemed to mind, or even register the slender intrusion as he made his way from one small patch of clear space to the next. Rung  _ knew  _ he was one of the slightest mechs on the ship, but tonight he just felt invisible. And, he reflected as he hastily stepped back again and narrowly avoided being stepped on, not much was happening to convince him he wasn’t. 

It would have been nice to be noticed, nicer still to be involved in a conversation as a member of the ship’s crew rather than just its therapist. It was easy enough to imagine someone tossing a few words towards him, perhaps asking if he’d heard about some ridiculous thing that happened on the last stop.

An elbow appeared in front of him and he wasn't swift enough to avoid it; the mech's arm caught him in the face and neatly cut through his contemplations of conversation. His vocalizer prepped an “it’s alright” before he realized no apology was forthcoming; the bot didn't even realize he’d hit something. He saw the elbow begin to move again and hastily got out of the way, spark stinging more than his cheek, and far more than he thought it should have been. 

Rung knew it had been an absurd thought; when it came to chatting, he was good for a captive audience in a therapy session, but not much else. No one was going to be approaching him, not here. He sighed and shouldered on, pausing when he reached a relative clearing to regain his bearings and look around once more for a serving droid.

Someone brushed against him and he turned, spark flicking nervously, to see who’d tried to pull his attention. It turned out to be Brainstorm, and Rung was just about to offer a greeting of his own when the words the jet had spoken caught up with his lagging processor and he realized that he was merely calling out to Perceptor. Brainstorm bumped him again, clearly trying to push past, and he stepped back out of the way to let him by. He surged forward to greet his lab partner with a flutter of wings and a hand on his shoulder.

The plating the mech had touched felt suddenly cold and his field roiled around that small point of contact like severed wires around a wound. Rung sank his denta into a thin strip of mesh behind his lip and used the prick of pain to control his expression. He didn’t want to make the two uncomfortable, and in any case, it wasn’t their fault. He turned aside, trying desperately to ignore the sheer joy in Brainstorm’s voice and field. The attempt was… less than successful.

He could feel his own field swirling around him, a maelstrom of anguish and strut-deep longing so powerful it made his tank ache, and tried to pull it back to himself before anyone picked it up. Despite his best efforts fragments of it darted out to lick against the bots he passed, brushing at their fields and frames, searching. Pleading. He forced his field back, shoving it close to his plating as he neared the bar counter. 

Abruptly, a mech turned to the side. “Hey, you alright?”

He recognized the voice as Skids and his spark twisted, knotting in on itself. Something like relief, hot and strong enough to make his knees tremble, rushed through him and clogged his vocalizer.

Swerve propped himself up on the bar to answer. “Yeah? You felt that too, huh?”

His reply died quietly before it left him and he hurried on, humiliated tears pricking at his optics. Stupid,  _ stupid-- _ and how careless, to release his field like that! And thinking that the question might have been directed at him? Ridiculous.  _ Laughable, _ really, even if he didn’t much feel like laughing.

And what would he even have said? Would he have said that he dreaded heading into his office every morning, because it meant another day of feeling unable to help the bots who so desperately needed it? Would he have said that those same concerns kept him up until the small hours, unable to find a moment’s relief until his systems eventually gave out and knocked him offline? Would he have admitted that he’d never really felt like part of the crew, merely a tool to be used by it? Would he have said that even though he was surrounded by bots, he’d never felt so alone? Would he have admitted that there were days when he wished they’d just left him in pieces, broken on his office floor

Of course not-- for one thing, that would have been far more that what Skids was looking for. Instead he would have forced a smile and said that everything was fine. He would have fought his screaming spark until it stopped insisting that he could reach out, even to someone he would have considered a friend. He would have been left with a dull ache in his chest that weighed him down until it was all he could do to walk away.

He knew the question wouldn’t have been pursued. There would have been no follow-up, there never was. It was his own fault, really; he’d never invited comment or concern about himself, it simply wasn’t professional. He had a-- a duty of  _ care  _ towards the crew, to be the one they could turn to for help. The crew had to come first, regardless of his own trivial feelings; it would be irresponsible of him to cut even one of them off from a possible source of help. Their needs would always supersede his own concerns.

Rung hated it, and hated the resulting guilt even more. He had to admit that, at least. He wound his field tight around himself, ignoring how it fed on itself and threaded through his spark, sending little frissons of pain through his lines. It coalesced into a barrier around him, cold and hard-edged, cutting him off from the gentle brush of the other fields in the room. He slipped past a few more bots before he finally located a serving droid and passed his cube off to it; he hadn’t trusted himself to hand the thing directly to Swerve for fear of his vocalizer giving out on him. Rung stepped past the droid and wove his way through the throng of bots until it spat him out next to the doors. Helm lowered and hands trembling, he finally left.

By that time his steps had become uneven as exhaustion wore away at his control. His field churned around him despite his efforts to keep it close, and eventually he just let go. It whirled away from him like a separate living thing, racing along the empty hallway. When it stretched too far it snapped back to him and rebounded painfully against his unsteady frame, forcing all the loneliness he’d let slip into it back against him, as strong as any physical blow. Rung stumbled, fingertips scraping against the wall as he sought to regain his footing. A low, mirthless laugh escaped him as he pushed himself away. He made a truly pathetic sight, knocked off balance by his own field. 

He righted himself and halfheartedly forced his field back in as he neared the lift. The last thing he wanted to do was startle someone with _ that, _ but when the doors slid open, the lift was empty. His field relaxed, pouring away from a frame that abruptly felt too weak to hold him upright. Rung sagged back against the side of the lift and dragged a tired hand over his face. His vents hitched uncomfortably.

The doors parted with a disgustingly cheery ding that echoed mockingly down the empty corridor. He stumbled down the hall towards one of the observation decks and ducked inside without bothering to palm on the lights. The door slid shut behind him, plunging him into momentary darkness as his optics refocused. 

From here, the ship seemed to drift, wandering aimlessly through space. Outside the broad expanse of window, stars danced endlessly by, each with the promise of something new, some new system for the crew to explore, and for Rung to hear about in passing weeks later, after all the excitement had worn off and all their new stories were old and tired. 

For now, from a distance, those stars were still beautiful. He was struck momentarily with the overwhelming sense of his own insignificance against such a display. His pitiful frame-- his pitiful  _ existence-- _ meant nothing in the face of this. He sank down onto the window ledge and pressed a hand against the thick glass. Under his palm he could feel the thrum of the ship’s engines reverberating throughout the craft, pulsing like a living spark. He let his hand fall away in favor of leaning against the pane and shuttering his optics. The glass felt more alive than ever, warmed by the heat vented from his frame and humming in time with the engines. 

He almost wished he could ask someone to join him, but he knew what would happen. What always happened.

Someone would enter, not realizing the deck already held an occupant. If Rung moved, they might notice him and he’d see shock and confusion written across their face as they tried to figure out who he was. They’d start to back away, sometimes with an apology for disturbing him, and before he could reply that he didn’t mind at all, they’d be gone again. With a sigh, he huddled a little closer to the glass, curling against it like a newspark against their carrier. His whole frame felt stiff and tired and cold. How long had it been now? He honestly wasn’t sure anymore. Logically, it had to have been only a few thousand years, perhaps a little more, but it certainly felt much longer since he’d--

Rung sighed. It wasn’t-- wasn’t  _ practical,  _ focusing on… things like that. He should have been more concerned with pulling himself together and leaving the observation deck for the crew’s potential use.

For a moment he indulged the thought of it anyway. A gentle hand against the back of his shoulder, a soft voice wrapping around the few short glyphs of his name, perhaps a small smile directed towards him, a question or two in an invitation to--

He broke it off as his spark contracted. Useless thought. It wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t bring anyone to him. Wouldn’t ease the ache he had to admit he’d carried with him for almost longer than he could remember. Wouldn’t make it any easier to wish that he wasn’t there.

He folded his arms across his chest, hiding his dimmed spark as his shoulders began to tremble.

Alone, Rung wept. 

**Author's Note:**

> sorry to disappear for like three months and then come back with this but! it is what it is.
> 
> feels wrong to say "hope you enjoyed" about something like this, doesn't it? but yeah, that.


End file.
